


No scar I did not make

by HarkerX



Series: The Yellow Notebook [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Alpha Hannibal Lecter, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Bottom Will Graham, Dom/sub Undertones, Hannibal is Hannibal, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Not Canon Compliant, Omega Will Graham, Top Hannibal Lecter, Will is Will, Will's Yellow Notebook, no murder on the menu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 15:36:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15975305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarkerX/pseuds/HarkerX
Summary: Hannibal is struck by the scars upon Will's skin and wishes to remake them by his own hand.





	No scar I did not make

**Author's Note:**

> pieces in the Will's Yellow Notebook series are chronological and exist outside of Canon, although they assume the reader has watched through Wrath of The Lamb as characters/relationships are referenced and I would hate to inadvertently spoil something. 
> 
> (contains a reference to cutting but no actual cutting. Continues to develop their relationship within this series, but contains only a small amount of plot)
> 
> (Thank you as always for the comment and kudos love)

 

 

When Will steps out of the shower, the first thing he notices is the piece of paper on the countertop. Fine stationery. Textured. Enough weight that the ink from Hannibal’s fountain pen won’t bleed. The man prefers a medium, or a broad and sometimes flex because a fine nib won’t easily make the marks he prefers, the turns and flourishes. A fine-nibbed pen could not compete with the the paisley of Hannibal’s tie, the fluttering petals of the flowers on his pocket squares, or the curlicues found on his very best socks.

It is a note. The man loves a note. Will, it turns out, finds them arousing. 

 

_Kitchen._

 

_-H_

 

The second thing Will notices is that the clothing he picked, the shirt and pants he’d folded and put beside the sink, are gone. The robe, is gone. 

His underwear, however, is in a perfect square, and so after he towels off, and after he does what he can with unruly damp of his hair, he covers what he can of himself and goes where Hannibal has requested.

He is always doing what Hannibal requests. He expected to tire of it. To miss his autonomy, his freedom. His own evenings spent with his dogs and he has those and sometimes Hannibal humours him and together they drive to Wolf Trap, listening to the crackle of the old radio in Will’s truck. In silence. They sleep in Will’s rickety old bed and Hannibal reads while Will rolls about on the floor, covered in dog slobber and fur. That’s when Will laughs the loudest.

It’s where he’s most free, in brindle and spot and sable.  

But here, freedom looks different. 

 

He is not free. 

 

Bonding is this: it is the giving up of agency. It is acquiescence. It is an acceptance of place. It is kneeling at the master’s feet. Once, Hannibal told Will if he believed himself a dog then he would sleep at the foot of Hannibal’s bed.

What Will has never told Hannibal, is that he would not mind. There is an ease to it, in being told what to do and doing as you are told.

It’s what he thinks about, with his hand on his cock and the stutter of orgasm in his throat. 

# 

“Good morning.” Hannibal does not turn around. 

It’s possible he heard Will, but they both walk so softly, so carefully. Perhaps its the soap, shampoo. Any number of dust motes and how when Will enters a room the air shifts. Moves. When Hannibal enters a room, everything stills. Everything stops.

Or perhaps, perhaps it is breath, caught. 

“You stole my pants,” Will says, as he pulls back one of the chairs. “Typically when one is expected at work, one wears pants.”

“They were wet. From the tap. Which you left on." 

“I didn’t leave the tap on.” 

Hannibal turns. “No? Strange.”

But he is smiling. 

“Hannibal.”

The man motions with his hand, a curl of come here. A beckoning. The floor is cold under Will’s bare feet but he goes to where Hannibal is, to the stove, and the bubbling pots and the fry pan. Will has become accustomed to breakfast. “And if the fat splatters?” He asks.

“I shall lick you clean,” Hannibal replies.

“You wanted me half naked. Or maybe you wanted to know if you left me half-naked if I’d merely replace the clothes you removed with another set.”

'There is this: Hannibal makes suggestions without speaking. By the unexpected addition or removal, by the way he changes the furniture in a room ever so slightly, just to see if Will notices.

“Yes,” Hannibal smiles. It’s the left corner that rises first. “I had hoped for the first, but would have accepted the second.”

Hannibal is not in rut. Will is not in heat. It does not seem to matter, now that they are bonded.

Hannibal turns and places his hand flat on Will’s chest. Will looks down, then up at Hannibal as he covers the man’s hand with his own. Hannibal kisses Will’s forehead in response.

“You indulge me everything,” Hannibal says. 

“Not everything.” Because there is, Will’s sure, a line. Will just doesn’t know what it is yet. “But I will eat your breakfast.”

Hannibal pushes himself away from Will in an nod. “French omelettes and roast tomatoes.”

“Bacon? Sausage?”

“Pork belly.”

Of course. “Should I get dressed before breakfast?”

“No,” Hannibal says and so Will does not.  

#

After breakfast, Will goes to find a second set of clothing. It’s possible Hannibal just didn’t care for the first, even though Hannibal purchases most of what Will wears, now. Will doesn’t mind, because Will does not care to shop and the t-shirts back in Wolf Trap come three to a package and Hannibal’s come on hangers, but at least Hannibal allows Will to fold them, to put them in the drawer with his socks. 

Hannibal follows Will, keeps close. Will wonders if he’s sick, if there’s something the older man can smell. “You are hovering.”  

“I suppose I am.” Hannibal comes closer, puts a hand on Will’s shoulder and turns him around so Will’s back is to his chest. 

“You watched me at breakfast.” 

Said little, even as he studied Will as if counting the bones in his hands, in his wrists, through his elbow to clavicle to spine, the vertebrae, the pieces seen and unseen beneath his skin.

“Scars,” Hannibal says. “I was counting your scars.” 

“Why?”

“I found myself disappointed that I did not make them.”

Oh. Will tries takes a step forward, but the man’s hands are strong.“Hannibal.” 

The window is open. The curtain flutters, making shadows on the wall. “This one,” he says, tracing a line down the right side of Will’s ribcage. Will knows the scar. It was an accident. He was sixteen.  

“Hobbs,” Will says, and drops his to chin to his chest.  

“And this one?” 

The one below his shoulder blade. “Tree.” He was eleven, climbing when he shouldn’t have climbed. Fallen when he shouldn’t have fallen. 

“Here?”

To the right of his spine. A tiny mark, no bigger than a penny. “Chicken pox.” 

“I am mad not at the tree, or the virus.” Hannibal touches the first scar again. “But this.” 

“I fell into the kitchen counter.” Into the lifted edge of formica.

“You should have had stitches.” 

“It’s too late now,” Will chuckles. 

“There should be no scars upon you that I did not make,” Hannibal says, and then he leans in, tilts his his head, gently biting Will’s neck. A nuzzle and air and breath and a sigh. 

“I’m not sure I can return it.” Will closes his eyes. Leans back into his Alpha. 

“But we can remake it.” Hannibal holds Will close. Drags his cheek through Will’s hair, even as Will pulls the man close until there is no space between them. “This one and any other marks put upon your body by someone who did not love you.” 

“You wish to see me bleed.” 

There are the faint, hairlike scars on Will’s neck. The ones he demanded. Begged for. The ones made by Hannibal’s knife, such fine work that now they are barely visible unless you know where to look. 

“I wish to see the ghost of my hands on your body.” 

“Your teeth already know my blood.” His blood, his spend. His tears.

“Hrmm,” Hannibal mumbles, even as he tucks his fingers beneath the waistband of Will’s underwear. “Like night blooming roses plucked from an ocean of tears.”

Will would laugh, if Hannibal were not so sincere. If Hannibal didn’t believe every word he spoke, if Hannibal didn’t know the taste of salt and flowers. “Perhaps my roses would prefer to remain attached to their stems.” 

Maybe the metaphor is lost, but there is this:

The stirring of Will’s cock. The press of warm fingers. Breath. Hannibal’s own cock, pressed into the curve of Will’s ass as Hannibal bites softly into their bond-mark. 

“We have to work,” Will says.

“Should we stop, then?” 

“No,” Will says and Hannibal uses his thumbs to drag Will’s underwear down. Will obediently steps out of them, and there is the matter of the nightstand, which is hand-height and fits the bend of Will’s body. Somehow, in this strange museum of curiosity and oddity, everything fits. Nothing is too high or too low or too far away. Nothing is too heavy. It is as if Hannibal built this place for Will, and then masqueraded it as a place Will could never belong.

But Will does. Like this, with his Alpha’s hand on his cock. His Alpha’s right hand, as the left slides between his cheeks and Will drops his head and leans down. As he lifts his ass, Omega presenting. He can smell his own slick and his body is convenient this way. Prepared and ready for Hannibal’s hand, for the wet, the press of a thumb over his hole. There is Hannibal’s careful, demanding touch. Will swallows down the warmth of his desire, even as he goes to tiptoes, even as he ruts back, dragging himself over Hannibal’s fingers.

“Will,” Hannibal whispers. 

Will is not interested in conversation. He is interested in the feel of Hannibal’s grip on his cock and the way the man fucks him and the feel of his cockhead. The way Hannibal slides in easily, quickly. 

It is a moan. A gasp. 

Hannibal’s hand digs into Will’s hip, holding him tight. The other on Will’s shoulder, the bony line of his body. 

Touch both steadies him and stills him. This is in the notebook, written in Hannibal’s perfect penmanship. Sometimes Hannibal demands Will move and sometimes it is this.

Sometimes Hannibal takes pleasure in Will’s body. Uses Will’s body.

Will’s cock nudges against the nightstand, leaves a trail of pre-come. A drop falls to the floor. Hannibal’s breath is hot. If there was time, if they had time to stay like this, he would beg for his Alpha’s knot. Instead, he just whispers Hannibal’s name.  

Hannibal thrusts, driving his cock deep into Will, angling so it’s good and right and they are so familiar with each other’s bodies, now, that Will knows to drop his heels and Hannibal knows just when to speed up and Will gasps, drives a fist into the top of the nightstand, rattling the lamp.

“There?” 

“Fuck, yes, there.” Will stutters and then he circles his own cock, stroking and fucking his own hand. “Fuck, Hannibal.”

Hannibal’s nails cut into skin. Blood moons. Hannibal arcs over Will’s body. Teeth find flesh and Hannibal bites him hard, a split of skin and spit, a guttural groan as Will comes over his fingers, over the nightstand and Hannibal bucks, a sudden, brutal impaling. 

Warmth and fullness. 

_There should be no scars upon you that I did not make._  

Eventually, Hannibal pulls free. Replaces his cock with his fingers, stroking Will from the inside. 

“I don’t think I-” Will says but it’s not true because Will can’t remember the last time Hannibal stopped at one, because Hannibal is training Will to orgasm as many times as Hannibal desires and so they both know better.

“Shhh,” Hannibal kisses his shoulder as if that will settle him. “Only one more. One more complaint, however, and it will be two more and you’ll be late for work.”

Two. They’ve gone as high as five, that’s the number Will has recorded in his little yellow notebook. Hannibal says it’s the bond, that Will’s Omega will do anything to please the Alpha. Including this. Will is sure it’s just his need to please Hannibal.

Hannibal works Will’s prostate, milking him. Drags a strong hand over Will’s back. Over the scar Hobbs made. Will’s cock is only half-hard, but there’s a familiar tightness in his belly. He rocks, twisting himself on Hannibal’s fingers. Pushes himself back and in response Hannibal adds another. It is not a fist. 

Not today.

When Will comes, it is a gasp. A shudder. His mouth open, a drop of spit to match his come and when Hannibal brings his fingers to Will’s lips, Will laps them clean. Tastes his own salt. They often fuck before and around breakfast until Will is worn and full of Hannibal’s spend, marked by his scent and sometimes bleeding. 

People pretend not to notice the bruises. The marks. The faraway look Will gets sometimes. 

_Alpha_ , they say.

_Omega_ , they say. 

_Mine_ , Will knows, even though most would assume it is Hannibal that owns the boy.

The reverse is also true. 

 

-FIN-

 

 

 

 


End file.
